


endure this tragedy that we like to call a home

by ikuzonos



Category: Dangan Ronpa, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Virtual Reality, Angst, F/F, F/M, NDRV3 Spoilers, Nonbinary Character, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence, squint for a Secret Relationship (TM)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 16:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13574421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikuzonos/pseuds/ikuzonos
Summary: Twelve years pass and the sixteen survivors remain dead.





	endure this tragedy that we like to call a home

**Author's Note:**

> im gonna stop mentioning v3 spoilers in the summary since it's been over a year since the release.
> 
> beta read by @soniagiris!

_ waiting impatiently for something _

It’s half past nine at night and there’s still no sign of them. Maki keeps her eyes trained on the door, only ever breaking away from the heavy cedar slab to have a sip of her tea.

Sweet lime. It was far more expensive than it should have been, but money doesn’t exactly matter to her - to any of them - anymore.

She taps her fingers on the counter. For a moment, she attempts to find a rhythm, then stops instantly upon the realization.

Years of therapy later, she’s still angry. Still bitter.

The door swings open and Maki stands to attention faster than she’d care to admit. Her partner is standing on the mat, covered in rain, but Maki throws her arms around them nonetheless.

“Tsumugi,” she breathes, scarcely audible, “I’m glad you’re home.”

“Me too,” they murmur.

Maki grips their rain jacket tight and tries not to cry.

 

_ when it storms _

Thunder rumbles in the distance, shaking the house to its foundations. Ouma looks up from his book and pulls the blanket around his shoulders tighter.

Angie’s at the market buying groceries and Amami’s fast asleep upstairs. So really, Ouma’s all alone. No different than usual.

Heavy streams of water fall from the sky all at once. Ouma watches, gripping the armrests of his wheelchair, as their herb garden turns into a waterlogged disaster. Tomorrow, they’ll all have to go out and repair it.

It shouldn’t be so bad. Angie likes building trellises, and if Amami isn’t still passed out from exhaustion, his nimble fingers will be good at replanting.

Lightning strikes in the distance, and a moment later, the power flickers out. Ouma prays that Angie will be home soon.

 

_ subtle kindnesses _

The bathroom counter is wet. Miu places a towel down over the puddle of water and waits, watching the white cloth dampen.

She goes to leave, when her too shaky hands knock the bottle of prescription medication over and the pills spill onto the floor. For a long moment, Miu stares at them blankly, unable to even swear.

What’s the point? This happens too much for it to be an irritant. 

“Iruma-san? Are you okay?” Tenko’s voice rings out.

Miu shouts back, “I’m f-fine!”

Tenko appears in the doorway a moment later, concern evident by the look on her face, “Did something happen?”

Miu stares at the floor. Tenko makes an ‘ah’ of recognition, and kneels down next to her, picking up the little pills. After a moment, Miu does the same.

“You can call me Miu,” she grunts quietly, “It’s been enough time.”

Tenko smiles at her, then reaches out and takes her hand, interlacing their fingers, “Okay, Miu. Do you need anything else?”

Miu feels tears well in her eyes as she says, “N-No, I’m good for now.”

 

_ a flash of anger _

One year and three years and seven years and twelve and Kiibo remains a ghost in the machine.

Logically, it makes sense. He’s Team  _ Dangan Ronpa’s  _ intellectual property. Letting him leave their sanctuary would be a travesty against… something. Probably nature. Kiibo’s processors aren’t up to date enough to check what the best phrasing is.

But hey, at least he knows the entire history of stand up comedy. It’s perfect, because his existence is a joke.

Himiko has attempted to kidnap him three times now, each time ending in disaster. He appreciates it, despite how useless it is. The sheer fact that any of his old ‘friends’ care enough to even try to break him out.

He hates Team  _ Dangan Ronpa, _ more than they hate the failure of season fifty-nine. Hates, hates, hates hates hates hates hates  _ hates- _

Kiibo throws himself against the walls of the reality he’s imprisoned in, but the tablet doesn’t move from its spot; the third shelf of the dusty storage closet on the ninth floor.

 

_ under the cover of darkness _

“It’s funny,” Saihara breathes at half past two in the morning, “I spent three days falling in love with you, and twelve years realizing that I can’t stand you at all.”

It’s easy to say it when she can’t see him. Though he’s gotten better about expressing distaste regarding their ‘relationship.’ It’s not like Kaede feels any trace of affection towards him either.

Team  _ Dangan Ronpa _ asked Saihara to at least fake a relationship with one of his most popular romance options, back during the initial fallout. And Ouma looked like he would rather die for real than be a part of it, so Kaede was really the only option.

They’re really not compatible, despite what the viewers think, and are entirely different people than the shitty excuse for a reality show would have the world believe.

Saihara looks at her sleeping body beside him, and brushes a strand of hair out her face. For a moment, and not for the first time, he considers strangling her for real.

Instead, he turns on his side and stares out the window of their apartment, watching the stars fade.

 

_ the colour green _

Springtime. Hoshi sneezes as grass tickles his nose. An absent, numbing feeling in the back of his head tells him to take his allergy medication.

His legs don’t listen and instead take a few more steps onto his lawn, biting the cigarette between his teeth the whole time.

Open, cloudless sky. Sunkissed flowers. Morning dew. Hoshi drinks in the soft warmth, letting the faint touch wrap him up in a softness he’s never understood. It’s nice to be able to breathe the fresh air and actually feel something moving inside of him.

It lingers, even when he returns inside and downs a glass of water to go with the amalgamation of pills in his cupboard.

The calendar marks today as the twelfth anniversary of the day he woke up. Hoshi underlines the number with a lime green pen and thinks about phoning Gonta.

 

_ the stars _

Nothing is comforting anymore.

Shinguuji changes clothes five times a day and still feels wrong, wrong,  _ wrong, _ on all counts. Too warm and the bubble of the cauldron creeps down his spine. Too cold and his limbs won’t respond to him.

At least at nighttime, he can stare up at the endless expanse of space - is this how Kaito felt? - and get lost in the wonder and beauty of it all. Stars are logical too, they follow charts and paths, until they flicker out.

(Like people.)

He rarely leaves his house anymore. He has no need to, save for the monthly trip to the penitentiary to see Nee-san. Shinguuji receives invites to reunions and press conferences, but he hasn’t attended one. Why bother? All of his co-stars hate him. They must hate him. It’s only just.

Shinguuji hates himself more than anyone, though.

 

_ tears _

The dog in the movie dies. Gonta turns it off without bothering to finish it. Every damn piece of entertainment ends with death. He can’t find anything to distract himself with, because it all goes back to the year where he decided to die on television.

His fist hits the wall without even thinking. There isn’t a hole, but the plaster cracks slightly. Better than the time he threw his whole fist through and woke the neighbours. That was hell.

Gonta shakes his fist to dull the ache as his eyes burn. Twelve damn years.

He slumps back down on the couch and picks up the remote again, flipping through the channels. He finds  _ Dangan Ronpa _ without much difficulty and sighs. They’re showing a rerun of a older season - he recognizes the SHSL Tattoo Artist from season forty-six - and it’s just another sign that nothing has changed. How many is it now, sixty-five? Seventy? It makes him sick.

But not sick enough to change the channel, and so Gonta resigns himself to watching a kid get fed to a woodchipper.

 

_ coming home _

Tenko is used to the house being dark when she returns. Miu sleeps like a rock when she sleeps at all, and thus locks up the house, just in case.

She stands in the dim foyer and sighs, leaning against the front door.

She’s so tired.

Her memoir comes out next week, but the publisher has been running Tenko into the ground with press releases and photo shoots. It’s really her own fault - this is the shit she gets for trying to go into detail about how badly  _ Dangan Ronpa _ messed her up.

Tenko wanders uselessly up the stairs to her room and crawls into bed beside Miu. Sure enough, she’s snoring, which is admittedly, what she hoped for.

She grips Miu’s arm and cries all night long.

 

_ a stolen kiss _

It lasts no more than a second, but it’s enough to make the news. Kirumi Toujou, spotted kissing a girl on the cheek in a cafe.

Kirumi doesn’t even know the girl. Not well enough, anyways. But over a decade of sad and useless feelings build up and overflow, like water in a rain barrel, like tea in a saucer.

Her agent calls angrily later that day, going on and on about how Kirumi will have to rectify the situation somehow. She ranked tenth out of sixteen in the popularity poll, which ‘isn’t high enough to deserve a romance arc.’

Never mind that Shirogane placed last, Kirumi thinks bitterly.

She’ll do something though, to apologize, she always does. Kirumi hasn’t loved any of the people she’s been spotted with over the years. 

When she stares down at the city park below her window, though, she imagines slow dancing in circles around the plaza with a masked man in heels, before closing the curtains.

 

_ a moment’s respite _

Maybe they were a failure of a mastermind, but it doesn’t mean that they can’t repent to Team  _ Dangan Ronpa.  _ Even if they hate them now, what can Shirogane do on their own?

A multi million yen corporation versus one useless ringleader. Well, one useless ringleader, and their girlfriend of four years.

Shirogane turns over on their side to catch a glimpse of Maki’s face as sunlight frames it delicately. It’s still early, and Maki rarely wakes before nine. There’s not much reason for her to, and if Shirogane wasn’t constantly haunted by nightmares, they’d sleep more as well.

Still, lying next to Maki in bed as warmth fills their room is enough comfort to make up for it all. Under the covers, Shirogane reaches for Maki’s hand, and intertwines their fingers.

Today, they have to head into the studio and appear at a press conference, but Shirogane decides to not think about that now. Why ruin the few moments of peace they still have?

Maki snuggles closer to them, and Shirogane buries their face in her hair.

 

_ a fistfight _

“Leave me alone.”

Kaede deflates as Maki spits at her coldly. There’s a fierce, angry look in her carnation eyes.

“I just wanted to talk to you,” she says quietly, dragging a hand through her hair, “Is that so wrong?”

Maki snarls, “You’ve treated me like shit long enough. Go terrorize your boy toy, since he’s still too stupid to realize how god awful you are.”

Kaede clenches her fist, “Don’t talk about Saihara like that.”

Maki scowls, “Just let me hate you in peace.”

Kaede punches her in the jaw. Maki stares at her blankly, giving her enough time to get in another hit and knock her to the ground.

Maki punches back, screaming at her. Kaede feels her teeth rattle around in her mouth as she beats her fists against the smaller girl, bruising her face.

A horrified scream pierces the air. Kaede  _ revels _ in it, before she’s lifted off of Maki and comes face to face with a pair of stormy blue eyes.

Shirogane quite literally throws her to the curb, swearing that if they ever see her again, they’ll call the police.

She groans, stretching her aching body across the pavement. Maybe they don’t deserve forgiveness. Maybe Saihara was right. (When is their engagement again?)

Kaede spits blood down the sewer grate.

 

_ a deafening sound _

Himiko always returns to an empty apartment. 

There was no way she was ever going back to her family - they pretty much kicked her out when she first auditioned - so this was the only choice, but she never fails to be surprised at how quiet it is.

She’s considered getting a cat a few times, but she never goes through with it. Sitting in the animal shelter with a ball of fur on her lap for an hour three times a week is enough.

Himiko traces the baseboards with her finger. She isn’t sure if she can hear nothing, or everything.

She would scream, scream bloody murder until her lungs gave out, if only her vocal cords still worked at all.

This body that she’s haunting doesn’t belong to her. She stole it from a real girl.

 

_ an absent touch _

Normally, Amami doesn’t mind physical touch. The brush against his arm when a child runs past him at the market. Taking Ouma’s hand in his own after a nightmare. It’s all simple, all reassuring.

But other times, like when Angie brushes his hair, Amami feels like he might phase out of existence. The sensation of a shotput being rammed into his skull still lingers, despite it being several lifetimes ago.

Despite it having never really happened.

Amami runs his fingers along the handknit blanket on his bed as he desperately tries to fall asleep. He gets the most minimal breaks between shifts - thanks Team  _ Dangan Ronpa, _ you fucking assholes - and he wonders if it’s going to drive him into the ground.

He knows that Ouma and Angie are getting worried about him, worried about the dark circles under his eyes, but he always brushes it off with a smile and a squeeze to their wrists.

What else can he do at this point?

 

_ when words aren’t enough _

None of her co-stars decided to pursue their fake talents in the real world, but Angie doesn’t have any other ideas as to what she should do with her life, so painting it is.

Vibrant explosions of colour on white canvas, dark blues and greys on hues of sunlight, ugly clashing reds and greens and yellows all meshed together in the worst way possible.

She stares at her finished paintings, usually not longer than a minute or two, then burns them with a lighter that she stole from a Team  _ Dangan Ronpa _ executive.

Ouma always tells her that she shouldn’t waste her art supplies, ‘especially because Angie-chan’s creations are beautiful!’, but it doesn’t stop her. Amami never says anything about the ashes that she dumps on their lawn, so how bad can it be, really?

There aren’t words in any language that can describe how she feels, so she’ll just strike a piece of printer paper with a paintbrush again, and hope for the best.

Twelve years of recovery. What a joke.

 

_ broken glass _

Kaito tapes more canvas over his broken window, all while cursing out the neighbourhood kids. He’s moved nine times in the past two years, trying to get away from the weird stalkers.

He sweeps up the glass in a dustpan and tosses it in a thick garbage bag that he got specifically for these incidents. How the hell he’s going to explain this to the landlord, he doesn’t know.

The rock that broke through is sitting on his kitchen table. Kaito picks it up and glowers at it, then pauses, seeing the note taped to the underside.

_ ‘Let me in.’ _

Kaito sighs and limps to his door, unsure of who to expect. Harumaki? Ouma? Neil Armstrong? He dismisses that last one- the guy’s dead.

He’s greeted by Saihara, who gives him an uncharacteristically bright grin, “Hey. Sorry about your window.”

Kaito scowls at him. The last time they saw each other, Kaito broke his arm and Saihara dislocated his knee.

But he can’t bring himself to hate the kid, not all the way, and just sighs, “It’s not the first time. Come in.”

Saihara smirks at him and Kaito resists the urge to sock him again.


End file.
